Leaves of Grass

You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me

  You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs,
  And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row;
  You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or July
      clover-bloom—no grain of August now;)
  You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay’d of time,
  Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,
  The faithfulest—hardiest—last.